


Marcel: New Tales of the Vampires

by marcelmayfair



Category: New Tales of the Vampires - Anne Rice, The Lives of the Mayfair Witches - Anne Rice, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Drama & Romance, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcelmayfair/pseuds/marcelmayfair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story opens in present day New Orleans at Boisnoir Farm, where a young Talamascan meets Marcel Mayfair. He is the hundred and sixty-seven years old vampiric son of the infamous Julien Mayfair, the ninth Mayfair witch of the family legacy. The vampire tells his story to the eager Talamascan and transports her through an extraordinary lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marcel: New Tales of the Vampires

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a slight retcon to The Vampire Chronicles and Lives of the Mayfair Witches series. The events of the following books have been rendered irrelevant and no longer exist in the universe molded by this story: Blackwood Farm (VC), Blood Canticle (VC), Prince Lestat (VC), Taltos (LotMW).
> 
> This story will also cover events in The Vampire Lestat, The Queen of the Damned, Merrick, The Witching Hour, and Lasher so this is a possible spoiler warning.
> 
> Enjoy!

Prologue  
Hitomi

     “Ms. Hiroshima?”

     A soft yawn would leave my lips once I heard my name spoken. It took me a moment to realize who was speaking to me before I recognized the brassy voice that belonged to Christopher, the driver that I had met at the airport back in New Orleans.

     “Hmm?” I answered in a soft, groggy tone.

     “We are here,” He informed me.

     I rubbed my eyes softly before sitting forward, looking out the window to my left.

     My eyes fell upon a monstrously grand Greek Revival style manor with great Corinthian columns that stood upon high ground. It was surrounded by acres upon acres upon acres of land all around. I could feel the great age this structure held.

     For a moment I couldn’t bring myself to get out of the luxury car, frozen by the beauty of this manor. I wasn’t pulled out of my own slack-jawed awe until the door opened and I had to hold myself up so I didn’t fall out.

     Christopher behind the door, holding it open as he spoke. “Welcome to Boisnoir, Ms. Hiroshima.”

     I grabbed the leather-bound journal beside me and held it to my chest tight as I slid out of the car slowly. My eyes scanned the vast farm and its grounds as I step away from the car; it looked like the farm land went on for an eternity. My eyes would settle upon what I registered as the lead-in to a swamp. My mind began to imagine what it was possibly resided in said swamp, but that line of wonder was interrupted when Christopher addressed me again.

     “This way.” He turned away and began to stride toward the manor’s entrance.

   I quickly followed his steps, wishing not to be left behind in his wake as I continued to look around the farm’s ground.

     For such a vast farm it didn’t seem very farm-like; meaning there wasn’t anything around that would make you think of the stereotypical farm. There was a barn several yards away, but it looked like it had been years since it was last in use. There was also a stable near as well, but no sight of horses.

     My eyes would turn forward in time to watch as a tall, slender, tan-skinned brunette emerged from the house’s entrance. She was dressed in a red, smart chic dress which stopped just an inch below her knees, black leggings while a pair of red flats cradled her feet. A warm smile formed upon her lips as her steel grey eyes fell upon Christopher.

     “Thank you, Christopher,” She spoke, a hard twang to her words.

     The African-American male before me gave the woman a smile and nodded to her words. “It was my pleasure.”

     The woman made her way down the steps to meet us and stopped upon the final step to meet us. She finally looked to me, her smile turning welcoming and friendly.

     “Greetings, Ms. Hiroshima,” She greeted me. “I’m Grace LaLaurie. I’m Mr. Mayfair’s personal assistant. Welcome to Boisnoir. I hope the drive wasn’t too long.” She extended her hand to me.

     I return her smile and take her hand into a gentle shake.

     “Please, call me Hitomi,” I insist. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Grace. The ride wasn’t too bad. Caught up on sleep while I could. That jet lag will get you.” I tell her, chuckling a little at my own words.

     She threw a soft chuckle my way before nodding. “Come on inside. Mr. Mayfair is waiting to meet you.” She turned her attention to Christopher again. “Will you be staying long, Chris?”

     Christopher shook his head. “No, I have to head on back. The wife wants to go dancing tonight.”

     Grace nodded gently in understand. “Alright. Send Lydia my love.”

     “I will.” He waved us off before heading back to the Bentley.

     Grace looked at me again and cocked her head toward the entrance. “Follow me.”

     I start moving again as she lead me up the steps and toward the front door.

     She opened the door and stepped away, turning a hand toward the entrance. “After you.”

     I bow my head slightly before moving forward to enter. “Arigatō,” I thank her, then step out of the way so she may come in.

     Grace stepped in, pulling the door closed behind her. She then moved forward so she could lead me down the grand entrance hall we entered. Her steps were quick but not hurried as she moved.

     My eyes turn up to wall at my right. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to face the wall. Hanging high up on the wall was large, striking oil painted portrait.

     Within this portrait stood three people; a man, a woman, and a young child. The man was a tall, majestic specimen: he had to have been no older than twenty five, well-suited (the suit looked like something out of an Armani or Versace catalog but more graceful), his head was an oval shape, a flat nose with a rounded tip and medium-sized bridge sat within its middle, soft full lips sat in a tight, stern line, and almond shaped, chocolate eyes stared out, almost connecting with my own. The hue of the man’s skin reminded me of raw, natural umber.

     I looked back to Grace, who was already at the end of the hall. “Is that him?”

     The statuesque brunette turned back toward me slowly. “I’m sorry?”

     “Is that him?” I asked of her again, making sure she heard me as I pointed to the man in the painting.

     She stepped back into the hall more, and turned her eyes up to the portrait and nodded softly. “Yes. That is Mr. Mayfair,” She answered. She rested an arm across her chest and rested the other elbow upon her hand as brought her other hand up to rest beneath her chin. “Handsome man, isn’t he?” He asked, releasing a soft sigh.

     I nod gently.

     I turn my sight back to the oil painting, focusing upon the woman that stood beside him, her hand resting upon the child’s left shoulder. She was a strikingly beautiful young woman, somewhere within her early twenties, flowing red hair cascading past her shoulders, fair skin that bordered along ivory or alabaster, green eyes that pierced into yours.

     A chill ran up my spine just looking at her. “Who is she?”

     “That is his wife, Mona. She was the fourteenth witch of the Mayfair clan and previous Designee of the Mayfair Legacy,” Grace informed me.

     I release a soft sound of recognition to this revelation. I thought for a moment before speaking again. “ _Was_?” I questioned, curious.

     “Marcel brought Mona into the blood eleven years ago, after they were married. She then named young Calliope as her successor.” She explained to me.

     “I assume Calliope would be the girl,” I said, looking at small girl in the painting.

     The petite girl that stood before Marcel and Mona was beautiful, in a soft, innocent, angelic manner. Her beauty was not like Mona’s beauty, but she was beautiful nonetheless. She had a small, heart shaped face with features that were remarkably similar to Marcel’s but her eyes reminded me of Mona’s, though their luminance was dull compared to Mona’s.

     If I did not know better I would have assumed she was their biological child.

     “Yes, their daughter. They adopted her when her parents, distant relatives from another bastard branch of the Mayfair clan, were killed in a terrible accident. Calliope was a baby at the time. That Mona treats that child as if she came from her very own womb.”

     I nodded lightly. I couldn’t help but feel bad for the child due to the loss of her parents. But then realize that she is in what appears to be wonderful, capable hands. I continue to stare at the family portrait.

     “Shall we continue?” My brunette guide asked of me.

     I turned back toward her and followed her down the hall.

     She led me around a corner and toward a spiraling staircase. She looked over her shoulder to make sure I was still close behind.

     We made our way up the winding staircase and reached the very top within minutes. We then made our way down a hall, passing by four, maybe five rooms before a room with a black, walnut door before us.

     Grace stepped forward and gave the door three raps.

     A booming yet deep voice called from behind the door. “Entrer!”

     Without missing a beat, Grace opened the door and entered the room, waving me in.

     I looked around slowly, taking in the array of books that sat upon multiple bookshelves, the vast Maplewood desk that sat in the middle of the room, the unlit fireplace to my right, and an Italian leather couch in the left hand corner behind me.

     My eyes then settled upon the man sat chair in a large leather chair behind the desk looking up from a hardcover book cradled within his hands. A soft smile formed upon his lips. It was the very man from the painting in the hall downstairs.

     “Well hello,” He spoke with a long drawl.

     Grace stepped forward to stand beside me. “Hitomi, Marcel Mayfair. Mr. Mayfair, Hitomi Hiroshima of the Talamasca. Tokyo Motherhouse.”

     The man stepped from behind the desk and made his way around to meet me, hand extended outward.

     “It is good to finally meet you face to face, Ms. Hiroshima,” The man spoke.

     I took his hand and gave it a gentle shake. His hand gripped my smaller one slightly, but not tight, as if he were being delicate with me.

     “Likewise, Mr. Mayfair.”

     He smiled more. “Please, call me Marcel.” He told me.

     “Only if you call me Hitomi.”

     “Very well, Hitomi. Please, have a seat.” He directed my sight toward a leather chair before the desk.

     He pulled out the chair for me before moving back behind the desk again to take his seat.

     I take a seat in the chair and give the man my attention.

     He settled back in the chair. “Can we get you anything, Hitomi?” He asked of me.

     I nod slightly. “Just something to drink, please.”

     He looked up to Grace, who was still standing behind me. “Grace, suga’, could you be a darlin’ and bring Hitomi and I some sweet tea with lemon, please?”

     She nodded. “With pleasure.”

   “Thank you, suga’. And make sure you pour yourself some as well.” He smiled.

   Grace backed out of the room, closing the door as she did so.

   Marcel focused on me once again. “So, David Talbot reached out to you, huh?”

   “Yes. He asked of me if I could do him this favor since he couldn’t tear himself away from his affairs in London.”

     Marcel raised a brow in thought. “Hmm. I'm surprised he isn’t running around still with that Articulate bunch,” He spoke. “Ah well, I’m sure he and I will play catch up another time.”

He made note of the journal I held in my hands. “So you going to take down my life’s story, eh?” He smiled some. “I’m sure you know such a task will take some time.”

     “I am prepared to stay here in Louisiana for as long as it takes.” I assure him.

     “Well alright then. Once Grace returns with our drinks we can get started.” He relaxed in his chair some.

     I rested the leather journal upon the desk before them then took off the jacket and scarf I had been wearing the whole time and rested them back against the chair. Then I reached into the right pocket and fished out a black ball point pen. I opened the journal and sat the pen down upon the fresh page. I sat back in my chair again, looking at Marcel for a brief moment.

     I could already tell this was going to be an informative and fascinating experience.


End file.
